FROST a sound poem by DH Winter 84-5
Eighteen cold degrees.
Stark landscape against bare trees.
Five miles go between us now --
Five miles filled
with anger and misunderstanding.
Why is it
that you would rather be reading
than rather be reading with me?
Your friends and I
did not say much
joking at the campus newspaper that night
Just enough, I guess
to get back to you.
